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Excerpt
Ambrosia
May Berger is standing in the elevator bank, peering up at the numbers. She
hiccups again. I stop beside her and watch her eyes go wide, then narrow, then
cross. Mirrored elevator doors are possibly the second greatest invention known
to man.
First, of
course, is the internet.
I stare at
Bro in the door mirror.
She stares
back.
For all the
shit she gave me growing up, I always respected her spine. As much as one can respect something that infuriating.
She got away with everything. Even when she was reckless.
I can
honestly say no woman Iâve been with since her has ever tried to make a break
for it in the Bratwurst Wagon.
As long as
I block out the month that followed, I can think of the Bratwurst Wagon with a
smile.
âWorking
late or coming in early?â I ask.
âThe hogs
are mating again,â she replies.
The world
believes this woman to be a sane, competent adult. Mind-boggling.
âDo you
always wait in elevator banks for women you want to harass?â she asks.
âOnly when
Iâve gotten bored staking out the bathrooms.â I reach over and hit the up button, because she hasnât. âDo you
always assume the elevators can read your mind?â
âThey were
doing better than you. I didnât want to go up.â
âAnd youâre
standing here becauseâŚ?â
âItâs my
thinking spot.â
âItâs 3 AM
on a Wednesday morning.â
âDo you see
me judging you on wanting to use an elevator at 3 AM on a Wednesday morning?
No, you donât. So why do you have to judge me for wanting to think in an
elevator bank at 3 AM? Hmmmmmm?â The hum trills up on the end, right in time
with her swiveling to face me. She squints one eye, then the other, before
scrunching her face, pointing her index finger at my nose, and making pew, pew noises.
If this is what the security guards were worried
Iâd find, Iâm rather disappointed.
âDrinking
on the job again?â I ask.
âAgain implies Iâve done it before. Which
I have not, unless you count that time the guava kale juice fermented, which I
donât, because it only counts as drinking if I enjoy the alcohol. Also, all
whiskey was consumed off-premise.â
âSo youâre
drunk.â
âIâm not drunk. Iâm barely buzzed enough to be
able to tolerate you.â
I eye her,
and decide sheâs telling the truth. Her eyes are too focused and her tongueâs
too sharp for her to be drunk. I canât even smell anything on her. Tired,
maybe, but not drunk.
âWas it
organic?â I ask dryly.
âItâs
whiskey, dickhead.â
Christ,
that mouth. I want to lick it and tape it shut all at the same time. âYou
shouldnât call your superiors names.â
She blows a
raspberry. The sight of her ripe pink tongue makes my cock leap to attention.
âLooking
for disciplinary action?â I murmur.
âOh, donât
you wish.â The elevator dings, and she lists inside. Iâd try to catch her, but
frankly, I wouldnât mind seeing her crash to the ground.
She comes
to a solid stop at the railing along the back paneled wall. âAnd youâre not my
superior,â she says.
âI write
your paycheck.â
âNot yet
you havenât.â Spittle shouldnât be sexy, but her second raspberry gives me a
longer look at her tongue. I remember that tongue. Long as a lizardâs, hot as a
volcano, talented as a porn star.
Thatâs as
complimentary as I get where Bro Berger is concerned.
âSo Mr.
Liver-bellied Bratwurst-runner-away-er,â she says, âwouldnât you be happier
owning a grocery store that I donât work for? Because Iâm sure we can find
another zagillionaire to take your place.â
I punch the
button to the eighteenth floorâwhere the fresh greens for tomorrow are being
picked and packed right now, if allâs on scheduleâand give her my worst smile.
âAw, Bro, your inflated opinion of my bank account is touching.â
âYou could
be a mega-ka-billion-trillionaire, and you still wouldnât have enough money to
buy a soul.â
Iâm
relatively new to the ranks of the ten-figure club, but itâs still been years
since anyone has insulted me to my face.
Her blatant
hatred is oddly erotic. âWho needs a soul when I have the power to sack
tempestuous employees?â
âGo ahead.
I dare you.â She bangs the button for the fourth floor. Then the third, fifth,
seventh, ninth, and every odd number to the top. With a frown, she draws her
hand down the row of even numbers until every single floor is lit, and if Iâd
still thought this was alcohol motivating her, the sharp, devious intention in
her cold eyes removes any doubt.
Sheâs fully
in control and sheâs intentionally trying to bait me.
Heat creeps
over my scalp. Itâs working.
Sheâs
making this elevator stop on Every. Single. Fucking. Floor.
I whip out
my cell phoneâsecurity can override her little prankâbut as the doors close, my
signal dies.
She does
the MC Hammer dance, and her breasts jiggle under her swishy spring dress in a
way even a celibate Tibetan monk couldnât resist. Thereâs no fucking way sheâs
wearing a bra.
My cock twitches
harder.
How did a
woman so insanely evil land the worldâs most perfect tits?
âGo on,
rich boy.â She switches to the Lawnmower, and now her hips are rocking it too.
âBuy your way out of that.â
Good Chase, the businessman, the gaming tech genius, the
face I show the world, the smarter part of my brain, hops off when the doors
open on the second floor, because he appreciates stairs and getting the hell
away from this deranged woman.
Bad Chase, though, has possessed my body, and keeps me
in the elevator.
I wave
goodbye to rational thought and better judgmentâwho needs those bitches
anyway?âand turn to Bro with a growl.
Sheâs
wiggling her sweet curvy ass at me now, arms circling, stirring the batter. âItâs my birthday, happy birthday, itâs my
birthâoomph!â
Huh.
Emergency stop button works, but itâs a little choppy on the execution. Better
have maintenance look at that tomorrow.
I take one
large, purposeful step toward Bro.
She fists
her hands on her hips and calls me an asshole with her dark, heavy-lidded,
fuck-me bedroom eyes.
Yeah.
Sheâs
feeling it too.
That pull.
That hate. That inexplicable force of rage that can only be satiated with a
hard, hot fuck.
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